


The Heaviest Burden

by Silverblind



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, templar!Connor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2078289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblind/pseuds/Silverblind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham knew he never would have children. The life he had chosen had no place for either wife or child. But Fate is a fickle thing, and not everything always goes as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be two time gaps in this story to fit the game's timeline.

"There is something in the wind."

The words had been soft, nothing but a whisper, but in the perfect silence of the forest they had rang out like the shatter of glass on stone. Ziio looked up from her work, her hands still clutching the leather tunic she had been working on. Oiá:ner sat as she had for the past hour, but now worry was etched upon her aged features, making her seem older than her already venerable age.

"Is it something bad, Clan Mother?"

The old native's gaze shifted to the younger woman's face, darkness veiling her dark, aged eyes. She seemed sad and, for the first time in many, many years, afraid.

"Yes. Today the ravens will fly over our villages, but ashes will be all they will find. The white men are coming, and it is not in peace."

Ziio's breath stilled and her eyes widened. Few white men ever came near the remote Mohawk village, but a group had been spotted two days prior which seemed to be making its way towards the valley. After hearing their descriptions, Ziio had no trouble knowing who they were: Johnson, Pitcairn, Hickey, Church and Lee. She had known right away they had not been sent by Haytham, for despite their separation, seven years ago, he never failed to come and prowl around the village when he was in the vicinity, and would not miss a chance to come so close to it, to her, with or without his men. And although she had wanted to believe their intentions to be good, she had known, deep-down, that these men she had come to consider as potential allies over her months with Haytham had come today with nothing but evil in their hearts. The Clan Mother's words only confirmed her fear, and she felt her heart plummet as she leapt to her feet.

"Get as far from the village as you can," she said, not bothering for once to hide the panic in her voice. "We are all in great danger, but your death would mean the end of us."

"We cannot leave the others," the Clan Mother shot back as she clambered to her feet with some difficulty, heavily leaning on her staff.

"They know how to fight," Ziio replied. "You don't. Go North, toward Bear Rock. I will warn the others and send them to you."

Leaving the Clan Mother and the other women by the river where they had been sitting as she took off through the woods, Ziio heard Oiá:ner call her name, but she did not slow down as nothing mattered to her now but reaching the village in time.

She ran as fast as she could, still trying to persuade herself that perhaps she was overreacting, that they had come to try and buy the lands – again - but the fee ling of impending doom that had fell upon her heart at the Clan Mother's words clawed at her mind, and she knew deep within her that they were true. Her steps slowed to a walk as she entered the village, and she immediately made her way toward a group of warriors chatting next to the bonfire.

"Atasá:ta," Ziio called. "I must speak with you."

A tall, muscular man stood up from where he was sitting, his brows furrowing upon seeing the thinly veiled terror in the usually composed woman's eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, her tone urgent, her voice hushed.

"White men are coming this way, and this time they will not only talk. I need you to take Ratonhnhaké:ton, and do as we planned," the young woman said. "Have the others to take the other children away."

The other's face darkened, realization dawning upon him as he nodded.

"Are you certain it will end like this?"

There was sorrow in his voice, although his face was nothing but a cold stone mask. Ziio looked away as she answered, knowing full well her eyes would betray her if she had looked at him.

"No. But it is better to be prepared, is it not?" she said.

She could see when she looked back at him that he did not believe her words anymore than she did herself. She sighed, and she wondered how much time she had left before  _they_ came.

"Do you remember the address I gave you?" she asked. The other nodded again. "Come and take Ratonhnhaké:ton at the eastern longhouse when the other children are gone. I have preparations to make. Warn as many as you can."

With a final nod, the Mohawk warrior rushed back to where he had been sitting mere minutes earlier, words of alarm already on his lips, and Ziio turned away, calling her son's name.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!"

Her eyes frantically swept over the lively village. Seeing the people so happy made her heart ache even more, knowing they were unsuspecting of the imminent disaster. She wanted to warn them herself, but she knew that doing so would bring many questions and make her lose precious minutes she absolutely needed. The ring of childish laughter reached her ear, and she hurried toward its source, seeing a small group of children, her son laughing with the others as they made their way toward the forest.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, come here!" Ziio called. She tried to hide the desperation in her voice, but she couldn't help the small tremor that still remained as she spoke.

The young Mohawk frowned as he turned to his mother, and the group of children slowed, looking back as the boy answered.

"But Ista, we were going to play hide-and-seek in the forest," he whined.

"There will be time for hide-and-seek later," she answered with a patient smile, but in her heart she knew it was a lie. "Come on."

With an affected sigh and a childish pout, the boy followed her as she turned on her heels, quickly making her way to the eastern longhouse, knowing her son would follow. She sat next to the cold ashes of the fire, forcing herself not to move as her Ratonhnhaké:ton finally sat before her, his arms still crossed over his chest in stubborn, childish anger.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, listen to me," she cooed, her heart swelling with motherly amusement at his antics. She sobered quickly, however, when his eyes met hers, and she had to use all of her strength not to show her fear at what was coming towards them. She could not afford to make him want to stay by her side as she knew he would if he knew what she was about to do, with the childish bravery every child showed when it came to protecting their parents. " Soon Atasá:ta will be here, and he will take you on a journey to Boston. You must follow him and obey his every word."

The child stared at her, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his head as his quick but still young mind tried to grasp what she had just told him.

"But… why?" he asked, the frown of incomprehension on his face telling his mother that he did not understand the situation, and that he did not like it.

"He will take you to see an old friend of mine. You will stay with him," she explained, reaching out and smoothing the boy's shoulder-length hair out of his eyes. The frown was still there, and his arms had crossed back over his chest. He huffed, a stubborn light in his eyes as he spoke again.

"But I don't want to."

"You have to," she whispered, and she dragged him into her arms, burying her nose in his dark locks, squeezing her eyes shut as she cradled him to her chest.

"When will I come back, then?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, relishing the rare show of affection.

She released him from her arms but he stayed close, sitting next to her and still surrounding her waist with his small arms. She smiled and let him, and this time she couldn't hide the sadness in her eyes. If he saw it, he did not speak.

"I don't know," she whispered.

There were hurried footfalls at the entrance to the longhouse, and Atasá:ta appeared, disheveled, a tomahawk in his hands as he shot nervous glances over his shoulder.

"They're here," he said simply, and Ziio stood, taking two letters from the confines of her cape and handing them to the Mohawk warrior. The paper was worn and dirtied, showing they had been written some time ago.

"You will give these to  _him_ , and  _him_  alone," she said firmly, her hand landing on Ratonhnhaké:ton's shoulder as she pushed him forward. "Follow him, Ratonhnhaké:ton, and do not stray from him under any circumstance until you have reached your goal."

There were screams and shouts outside, and the natives jumped, the sheer terror they heard in those yells making chills run up their spines. Ziio kneeled before the boy, their eyes meeting, and for once she did not try to hide her emotions from him, and tried to put all her love and courage into her next words:

"Do not be afraid, my son. You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton, you must be brave. You will think yourself alone, but know that I will be at your side. Always and forever."

The first gunshot rang out outside at her last words, and Atasá:ta did not need to be told to drag the young native after him, rushing toward the shore. Ratonhnhaké:ton struggled in the older man's grip as realization finally dawned upon him, his mother's words of encouragement taking a whole new sense as he finally understood them for what they were: final words of love and farewell.

"ISTA!"

The pain she could hear in her son's voice almost made Ziio turn around as she left the longhouse, ready to meet whatever fate the spirits had reserved for her. What she saw filled her with rage and sorrow. Corpses were strewn about the camp, mostly warriors, but also women who did not have time to flee, and the smell of blood permeated the air, making her sick. Fires were already roaring, easily devouring the wooden houses and fence surrounding the village. The smoke made her eyes tear up as she finally saw them, five silhouettes blurred by the smoke and ashes, but still undeniably familiar. She coughed as she walked toward them, the smoke getting thicker by the second as everything she had ever held dear crumbled to ashes around her. But the knowledge that the thing she loved the most, her most precious treasure and the one person she could not have survived losing was on his way to Boston, to a person she trusted and loved, who would protect him, gave her the strength to step forward.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?"

She knew that voice well, and her hands tightened into fists as she stopped a few steps away from the five men, her face a fierce mask of pure fury.

"If it isn't the Native bitch," Lee spoke again, his cruel laughter echoing in the choking heat of the fires. His face was spattered with blood, a large gash on his cheeks showing that the Mohawks had at least put on a fight. The four men beside him were also covered in blood but, as much as Ziio wished the opposite, she knew it was not their own.

"Lee," she spat the name as if it was the worst insult known to man. "Why?"

She had expected them to, but when they laughed she was still taken aback. There was such savagery and madness in their voices that she couldn't help but take a step back, and when Lee looked at her again she saw in his eyes nothing, but pure, unadulterated _hatred,_ hatred so pure that she had never believed she would see it another human being. But now she understood that the man who faced her now was not human anymore: from the moment his sword had felled the first Mohawk he had become nothing more than a crazed, bloodthirsty beast.

"Do you think it will make a difference? When this village and its inhabitants will have been definitively  _erased_  from the map, nobody will remember you, or your name, and we will finally be able to take the land we deserve. You are nothing. A speck of dust. You and all your ilk. Living in the dirt like animals, oblivious to the true ways of the world. The wiser among you recognized the shape of the future. They threw themselves at our feet and begged mercy. But not you, it seems. And for this, you need to be _exterminated."_

She heard before she saw the pistol Lee had whipped out, its tell-tale click making her heart shudder as she closed her eyes. There was nothing left to say, and nothing left to do as the all-consuming fire reduced everything she ever known to ashes. Everything, except one thing.

'I love you, my son.'

There was a single shot, and Ziio fell to the ground, her eyes shut, her face peaceful as the last sparks of life left her body. The last face she had seen had not been that of that hateful man's. It had been a smaller, softer face, one she had vowed never to forget, and to never let die.

Ratonhnhaké:ton.

* * *

"ISTA!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton struggled with all his might, but Atasá:ta never wavered, his grip like steel upon the boy's waist as he half-dragged, half-carried him toward the shore. Their only hope was the forest, where they could take to the trees and cliffs before crossing over into Diamond Basin and find their way to Boston.

"Let me go Ata, I have to help her!" cried Ratonhnhaké:ton, still struggling and clawing at the older man's hand.

"She entrusted you to me, and risked her life to save yours," he cried harshly, tightening his grip even more upon the child. "Let it not be in vain, follow me!"

"You're hurting me!" the boy whimpered as they reached the village's edge.

"Now is not the time to complain!" the warrior spat. "Come on, come on!"

Despite his words, his grip had slackened, and with a shove Ratonhnhaké:ton broke free from his hand, dashing toward the burning longhouses. Atasá:ta, stunned, could only stare at his retreating back before leaping after the boy, but the child had put those few seconds to use by putting as much distance as he could between him and his guardian, and ran as fast as he could toward his mother. He could hear a man's voice, speaking the language his mother had started to teach him, and although he did not understand every word, he could still hear the barely veiled menace in his words.

"… The wiser among you recognized the shape of the future. They threw themselves at our feet and begged mercy. But not you, it seems. And for this, you need to be  _exterminated."_

As he rushed toward his mother, the boy felt a hand closing around his wrist, and another on his mouth to smother his scream as he was held back against Atasá:ta's chest. He could see her now, through the smoke, standing before five men, although he could barely see them. One had a strange machine in his hand, and was pointing it at his mother. He felt Atasá:ta begin to pull him away, but it was too late. The shot fired, and blood, so much blood flew from his mother's chest. She stumbled, dropped to one knee, and she seemed to smile for a second before she fell, her eyes still closed, her face peaceful.

The flow of time seemed to slow to a crawl as the boy and the man watched the crimson snake of Ziio's blood slowly making its way toward them, their eyes not leaving the dash of angry red upon the dirt as a maniacal laughter rose in the smoke-laden air, soon joined by four other sinister laughs. Atasá'ta was the first to regain his senses, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was limp in his arms as he stood, running back into the forest from where they had come as the five white men left the village. There was nothing but silence as the Mohawk warrior leapt and climbed, his hands shaking with shock at what they had just witnessed, and his face etched with worry at the stubborn silence of the little boy he had secured to his back.

They were well on their way to Boston when Ratonhnhaké:ton finally began to cry, now nothing but a lost child, a six-year old boy calling for a mother he would never see again.

"Ista… Ista…"

Atasá:ta stayed silent as the child cried out against his shoulder, his own heart breaking for the mother gone too soon and the child who would be forever tortured with visions of his mother's final moment. And himself could do nothing but cry, as they arrived into the city which was bound to become this lost child's home.


	2. Chapter 2

Night had long since fallen on Boston and the rain came down hard, drumming its hellish tattoo onto every roof and every window, the streets transforming into torrents as rain filled every crack of the paved roads, the thunder's crashing and the wind's howling keeping more than one awake in the cold autumn night. Somewhere a door slammed shut, and a tall man sighed in relief as he finally entered the darkened hall of his home, throwing his damp hat off as water dripped off his equally soaked cape and onto the carpet. He couldn't care less, however, and as he made to walk further down the hallway toward a well-deserved rest, there was a knock on the door.

The man's brows furrowed, and he hesitated, torn between his bed and what any civilized man would do. As another knock rang out, he sighed and threw the door open, making no effort to hide his irritation at so late a visitor. What he saw left him speechless. A tall native stood before him under the porch, as soaked as he himself was, his face obscured by a hood, the silhouette menacing in the barely-lit night of rain and thunder. He was cradling something in his arms, and before the man could inspect him further, the native spoke:

"Haytham Kenway."

There was no doubt in the native voice as he spoke, merely an assessment of the identity of the man before him.

"I come on Kaniehtí:io's behalf," the native said without allowing the other to speak. His English had the rough accents of the Mohawk language, his deep voice barely audible over the rumble of thunder and the shrieking of the wind.

The frown, which had not left Haytham's face, deepened, his face slipping into the stone mask he had become so accustomed to wearing.

"Then you must know we have broken off every link we had long ago," he answered matter-of-factly, although saying the words still made his heart ache.

The native nodded, but still did not budge, and Haytham waited for him to speak again. When he did, he looked down at what he was carrying in his arms:

"I know, but she still sent me here with him," he said, and he held out his burden to the Templar. When he saw what the Mohawk was carrying, Haytham felt his blood run cold. Looking up at him was a sleeping boy, lying limp in the blanket in which the Mohawk warrior had wrapped him. As he took in the child's face, Haytham noticed the undeniable resemblance: the full lips that could only have been his, the sharp angles of the face, the straight nose. Despite this, he looked back up at the warrior, his face smoothed out into a scandalized expression.

"I don't know what she told you," he said. "But this child surely is not mine, and I will not take care of a child she had because of our past links. Take him back to her and pass along my sincerest apologies, if you would so please."

The authority in his voice would have intimidated any lesser man, but the native did not move, the child still held out between them as they stared at each other, a battle of will that seemed to last an eternity before Haytham stepped back into the shadowed hall without a word, intent on slamming the door shut in the man's face. But a hand halted him, forcing the door open even though Haytham pushed against it with all his might. He knew himself to be strong, but the Mohawk seemed to counter him without the slightest effort.

"Listen to me," the native said, and despite the absolute calm he had displayed up until this point the Templar could hear the anger lurking beneath every word. "She is dead."

There was silence then, as nature herself seemed to still for the longest of second during which Haytham tried to grasp what the warrior had just said. He felt himself gasping for air as he slowly opened the door again, his mind refusing to acknowledge what he had just been told. His hand grasped at nothing until it found the wall for support, and he hunched forward, desperately trying to breathe, to think, to concentrate.

"No…"

Denial was suddenly replaced by anger, and he leapt at the other man, who quickly shielded the child back in his arms as the usually composed Englishman stood before him fuming.

"I saved your people seven years ago!" he roared, and a clap of thunder punctuated his words, as if the storm joined him in his fury. "And now you dare come here and lie to me for me to take care of this boy! He could just as well be the child of a whore you fucked in the streets of New York, for all I know! HOW DARE YOU?"

In his rage, his foot had flown toward the Mohawk's knee, but the kick which should have shattered his kneecap only found his tibia, and although he could hear the man groan in pain, the ache that ran up Haytham's leg was also very real, and he stood there, panting as he ignored the pain shooting through his entire foot and calf. He took a deep breath, trying to wrestle his emotions back under his control after his outburst. The native had straightened now, and there was a sneer on his lips as he reached into the satchel dangling from his waist. Muscles coiled, ready to pounce, Haytham was prepared to disarm him and he watched him carefully as the other hand's finally rose out of the bag. The native held out the two letters, his hand shaking with barely contained fury. The Templar snatched the papers out of his hand as he read the name scrawled on the envelopes. Although one read his own name, the other was addressed to someone he did not know, the name definitely Mohawk as he attempted to read it but failed, and he quickly pocketed it as he tore the other envelope open, and he began to read in the cold night air, the rain still falling around him as he and the native stood under the meager porch which offered them a scrap of protection. The massage was short, direct and blunt, just like the woman who had wrote it. The penmanship was clumsy at times, but still showed signs of education.

_Haytham,_

_I write these words in a tavern of Boston. It has been four years since I have last seen you, and six since we have decided that we could not be together. I pray that I will never need to give you this letter, but laying the word down on paper eases my worries. We have a son. A beautiful boy that I named Ratonhnhaké:ton_  .  _You do not understand it, but I assure you it is a beautiful name. I write this letter so that if, one day, the spirits would have me leave this Earth before my son has grown and he finds his way to you, you will not reject him. We both had our flaws, Haytham, but you are a good man, and if our son has a chance to grow with you, I do not want to deprive him of it. If one day this letter finds you, know that, although we were different in mind, our spirits were one. I loved you, and I know you loved me, in your own way._ _Konnorónhkwa_.

_Ziio_

He read quickly, and when he looked up his face had changed. From pure anger it had gone to sorrow, his eyes expressing everything that needed to be said. The native once again held out the boy to him, and this time the Templar accepted the burden, arranging the child carefully in his arms as he nodded to the other man. They stood in silence for a minute, the rain still falling as hard as before, before the Mohawk stepped back, ready to leave, but Haytham's voice stopped him.

"How did she die?" he asked, his eyes leaving the slumbering child in his arms to once more focus on the warrior.

The Mohawk opened his mouth to speak, and there was a flash of pain in his eyes as he spoke:

"Do you truly want to know?"

At Haytham's nod, he spoke again, his voice so low that the Templar could barely hear him over the crackling of the rain on the paved streets.

"She was shot by the white men that burned our village down. Abandoned like a dead dog in the dirt. Left to rot."

There was nothing but horror on Haytham's face, but he could still see the now undisguised hatred in the Native eye as he looked at him, seeing in him just another white man ready to trample over natives to get the land they needed. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Mohawk held up his hand.

"You will apologize, you will promise to make amends," he spat, venom dripping off every word. "But nothing you say will change what already happened. My heart died that day with Ziio and every other brother and sister I lost back home."

His eyes turned to the boy in Haytham's arms, and his eyes softened, filling with affection and what was unquestionably regret.

"I am leaving this boy with you only because it was Ziio's will," he said, lifting his gaze back to the Englishman's face, his eyes once more dark with loathing. "If I one day learn he has been mistreated, you will not see death coming, for it will come from every tree, every shadow and every river you ever lay eyes on. It will be silent, but certainly not quick, and, I can assure you, it will  _not_ be painless. She granted you a son today, but also a heavy burden, for he has every Kanien'kehá:ka behind him. Farewell Mister Kenway, and do not ever forget my words."

The Templar wanted to speak, but the native was already gone, leaving him alone with the child cradled in his arms as what had only been a particularly severe rainstorm turned into a full-blown thunderstorm, the wind howling like wolves to the veiled moon as Haytham Kenway stepped back into his home, a precious burden in his arms and a sleepless night ahead of him.


	3. Chapter 3

The grey light of dawn had just begun to peek in between the heavy curtains of the small bedroom's only window when Ratonhnhaké:ton finally woke, and Haytham straightened in his chair near the bed as the boy stirred slightly before sitting up. He cleared his throat to draw the young native's attention, but immediately regretted his decision when the boy's eyes filled with what could only be described as terror. Before he could move the child had torn the sheets away from him before jumping off the bed, and Haytham leapt to his feet, intent on slamming the door shut before the boy could escape, but he had already thrown the door open and was racing down the hallway toward the stairs.

"Come back!" the Templar shouted, throwing himself after the child as he barreled down the stairs at an alarming speed. "I am not your enemy!"

The boy seemingly ignored him as he reached the first floor and shot off through the doorway leading to the parlor, Haytham hot on his heels. He could not help but be reminded of his first attempt to contact Ziio, all those years ago. He pushed all thoughts of the woman to the back of his mind as he entered the parlor after the boy, just in time to see him expertly climbing a high bookcase, making many books and trinkets fall to the floor and shattering some. Haytham couldn't care less, however, as he skidded to a halt before slowly approaching the bookcase as well. Ratonhnhaké:ton had reached the top by then, crouching against the wall as his chest rose and fell with both fear and exertion, his face obscured by the thick dark strands of his hair. The Templar allowed himself a second to assess the situation, keeping a close eye on the unattainable child. The bookcase was far too high for him to simply reach up and pluck the boy from his refuge, and the piece of furniture would never support his weight was he to try and climb as well. He reluctantly settled on trying to coax the child down, although he knew it would not be easy. Not only did the boy seem to be scared out of his wits, but the Templar was not one for children, although he had no choice but to try in this particular situation.

"I mean you no harm," he slowly began, extending his empty, open palms up toward the boy to show he was unarmed. Surely the boy would not notice the blade that lay nestled against his forearm beneath the heavy, navy blue frock coat. "Do you understand me?"

There was no answer from the child, but he shifted slightly at the sound of the man's voice. The sun had begun to rise, and its vivid light made the dark room seem less ominous, its rays almost reaching the bookcase where Haytham stood.

"There is nothing to fear," he said as softly as he could manage. "What are you afraid of?"

He heard the boy shift once more atop the bookcase, and although he wanted to step closer he stayed where he was, waiting for an answer. After a minute of heavy silence, a weak, broken voice, hoarsened with disuse, finally answered him, the top of the boy's head appearing over the edge of the bookcase as he stared down at the white man.

"You."

Haytham was not exactly surprised.

"Why?" he asked, although unsure if he wanted to hear it.

"You killed my mother."

The words were harsh, the tone hard and biting. Haytham was taken aback as grief tore at his heart at the accusation, and it was a moment before he replied.

"No. She was my friend. I would never have harmed her, and I would never harm you. I did not kill her," he said, trying to keep his voice calm and steady despite the sorrow he felt swirling inside him.

"Yes you did," the boy spoke once more. The Templar did not have much experience with children, but even he knew that such a young boy should not be speaking that way, with such hatred and anger in his voice. "And now you're going to kill me."

"No, I will not," Haytham answered, at a loss for words. "I am only here to help you. I am a friend."

"No, you're not," the child spat back.

At his own words the boy leapt from the bookcase, catching the man off-guard as he landed next to him before rolling, jumping back up and taking off once more, this time toward the entrance hall, the Templar's hand brushing his shoulder as he attempted to stop him. With a curse, Haytham followed the native. The boy was small and quick, barely giving the man time to reach the hall himself before he wrenched the door open and rushed outside. Haytham followed closely, not bothering to close the door as he followed Ratonhnhaké:ton through the early morning crowd. Where the child could easily slip between the strollers, Haytham had to shoulder his way through, which earned him many a dirty look or insult, but he could not care less as he steadily got closer to the native boy.

"Watch out!"

"What are you doing?"

"My cabbages!"

The Templar ignored them all, his eyes focused on the tan dot ahead of him. He was so close now that if he reached out he could brush the boy's leather tunic, maybe even grab him –

"HEY!"

A heavy hand landed on Haytham's shoulder, the grip so strong that he was stopped dead in his tracks and roughly spun around to face a very angry, red-faced man.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," the fat man began, waving his fist menacingly, "but you should – "

Haytham's elbow brutally connected with the man's nose, transforming his last words into a cry of pain. His knee then violently shot up into the man's prominent stomach, and as his grip slackened on the Templar's shoulder he quickly shook it off, his eyes scanning the gathering crowd frantically for any sign of the boy. When he failed to spot the child he dashed off once more into the direction the native seemed most likely to have taken, leaving the fat man wailing for the guards as his nose bled plentifully. Although the altercation had lasted but a few seconds, no trace of the boy remained as Haytham pushed his way through the crowd of the neighbouring marketplace, desperately looking for his son.

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton ran without looking back as he weaved his way through the crowd, the clamour of voices, animal sounds and boots on cobblestones almost too much for him to bear as his blood roared in his ears, forming a deafening cacophony that made his head spin. Still he forced himself to keep going, if only to escape from the man he knew was pursuing him. Something in the man had woken a distant echo in his mind, as if he had already seen him, or at least heard a description of him, but he had not wanted to wait and remember before fleeing. All he wanted now was to find his way back to his tribe and hide from the white man. Although his mother had deemed him as a friend, all he knew was that white men had killed his mother, and that this one could very well do the same to him. Yes, he had to get back to the Kanien'kehá:ka. They would protect him.

He felt his lungs burn as his steps faltered, and the boy resigned himself to slow down, still walking at a brisk pace toward what he hoped would be the city's gate. As he walked, however, his eyes were drawn to the colourful stalls that dotted the marketplace, exotic wares piquing his curiosity as he turned his head every which way, trying to take everything in at the same time. He had been many times to the numerous small outposts that littered the Frontier with his mother, but they were nothing compared to the show of sounds, smells and sights that now assaulted his senses in the larger city. He felt overwhelmed and lost but, as his eye was once more caught by a tempting, unknown fruit, he reminded himself that he had to keep going if he hoped to get back to his tribe. He shook his head and turned his gaze back in front of him, but it was too late to avoid a man's booted legs, and the resulting collision had him staggering back a few steps.

"Well now, would you look at that," a man's voice said, mocking, and as Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head to clear his vision he felt someone grab a handful of his hair, pulling his head down toward the ground roughly. "A savage child."

The boy could hear two other men laughing stupidly as he struggled in the first man's iron grip, clawing at the hand that held him and kicking at his attacker, although he was standing well out of his reach. The hand held his head down still, preventing any form of more effective attack.

"A feisty one, eh?" another voice said. "I wonder what they would give us for him back at the slave market."

"I don't know," the first man replied, lifting the boy a few inches above the ground, still holding onto his hair as another hand came to still the child's fists. "But it looks like we'll have to teach him some manners first."

"Not here," a third man said.

"Of course not," the first man snapped back. "Follow me."

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt himself being dragged away from the lively chatter and shouts of the marketplace, and he struggled even harder, although his kicks only met air.

"Let me go!" he cried.

A deep, cruel chuckle answered him.

"Listen to that, he knows English!" the first man scoffed.

"Smart for a savage," the second man sniggered.

"Spirited, too," added the third, watching the child's struggle.

Ratonhnhaké:ton finally felt himself being dropped unceremoniously on the hard stones of a paved street. When he raised his head and clambered to his feet, he realized it was more of a very filthy and, judging by the distant hollers of merchants, very isolated alley.

"Now, boy, here's the deal," the first man said, stepping forward menacingly. He had a thin, fragile frame, but his face showed such cruelty that even his slight build did not contribute to making him less intimidating. "Either you behave and we take you over to New York without a fuss, or, as we said, we teach you good manners, which will delay our trip by a good few hours."

The two large, muscular men at his sides chuckled idiotically at his words, slamming their fists in the open palms of their opposite hands. Ratonhnhaké:ton felt fear surge through him, but there was no escape. So he straightened and spat out five words he immediately regretted:

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be, boy," the first man simply answered.

The child did not see the first hit coming. It was a swift kick to his ribs that sent him gasping for breath on the dirtied stones of the alley, followed by many more. When the two others joined him, raining blows on his head and back, the boy had the clear revelation that he would, perhaps, die right there on the grimy cobblestones of a city he had barely seen, in a world that had had nothing for him but hardships. His entire body was pain as more and more blows landed on every possible part of his body. It seemed like hours, days had passed before he slowly felt himself slip out of consciousness, of existence, even, and into the soft embrace of oblivion. It was right then that the blows stopped as suddenly as they had began, the boy shuddering awake as he heard the seemingly distant sound of a scuffle he knew was right next to him. Gathering the last of his strength, Ratonhnhaké:ton rolled his head to the side as he was dragged back into the waking world, his vision just clear enough to see the feared dark blue cloak of the man he had ran away from flash before his eyes as two of the men that had hit him fell to the ground and stayed motionless, the third seemingly hesitating before turning around and fleeing. The cloaked man was immediately on his heels, a blade glinting in the weak sunlight that reached the filthy nook they were in as he leapt like a wild beast upon its prey. A gurgle rang out before it was silence again, the man immediately rising away from the body and approaching the prone form of the boy briskly. He knelt silently, a worried glint in his eyes and a concerned furrow to his brows as he surveyed the damage, his hands hovering without touching, as if afraid to worsen the child's condition.

"Do you hear me?" he asked the barely conscious boy, hunching lower over him so he could hear the answer. "Do you recognize me?"

"Yes," the child breathed in reply, the simple word making his chest ache.

"I will have to lift you up to bring you back to the house and have you examined," the man explained, still not touching the boy. "You will be in pain, but please believe it is only in your best interest. As I said before, I am not here to hurt you. Do you understand?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton could not bring himself to answer this time. Although he did not want to trust the man, he knew he was his only chance to get out of that horrible place. And so he nodded, the slight, barely noticeable movement all the white man needed to cradle him delicately against his chest and wrap him in his cloak to protect him from view. The touch was light and careful, but the boy still whimpered in pain when the man rose and started to walk away from the scene. He murmured words of encouragement as he quickly crossed the marketplace back toward the house the boy had fled but an hour earlier, his voice and the warmth of his arms slowly lulling the child back into the mercifully empty void of unconsciousness.

* * *

Haytham pushed the door open hurriedly, quickly climbing the stairs to the room the young native had occupied for the night as he called for the maid.

"Mary! Mary! For God's sake! MARY!"

"Yes, Master Kenway?" she answered, hastily climbing the stairs. She had just come back from the market, and had barely had time to place the food in the kitchen before being called.

"Go fetch the doctor at once," Haytham answered quickly as he delicately put the young native down on his bed, the maid gasping in shock as she finally met her master in the guest bedroom and saw what had the usually composed man so agitated. "Even if he is busy, tell him that it is most urgent, that a life is a stake. If he still refuses to come, tell him he will be paid double. We both know the old crook's love for money. Hurry!"

The Templar saw hesitation in the young woman's eyes, questions she would undoubtedly have liked to have answered plain on her face, but she instead swept out of the room without a word, and he heard the front door slam shut a few seconds later. He had hired the young woman on the condition that she ask no questions, and up until then she had held true to her word, not enquiring why her employer was away for days at a time, or why he sometimes came back at ungodly hours, why blood could often be discovered on his clothes or sheets, why the same five men always came running in and out of the house or why the doctor had to be called so often to heal impossible wounds. She had stayed true once more, her curiosity strong but her sense of duty stronger, undoubtedly helped by the urgency in her employer's tone and the sight of a blood-covered child. Motherly instinct – such a wonderful thing.

While waiting for the maid's return, Haytham employed himself to examining the child further. He had already begun back in the alley, to see if the boy could be moved without concern, but it was much easier now, in the well-lighted room. The Templar could already see many open wounds and what would undoubtedly become bruises covering almost every square inch of exposed skin. Unsheathing the blade hidden at his wrist, he slowly began cutting the leather tunic off the boy's body: he would have to be moved as little as possible right now, lest more pain be caused. The leather ripped apart easily beneath the razor-sharp steel, but Haytham's eyes could not leave the native's face: for the first time in many years, the Templar had been utterly terrified when he had finally found the boy and realized what was happening to him. He had then felt rage so great, so all-consuming, that he had wanted to draw out each and every of those men's deaths for hours, but the child's suffering had woken a sense of urgency in him, and he had never struck so quickly, without looking back to see if the men were truly dead, as he always did to avoid any problems. All he had been able to think about as he struck was if the child was still alive or not. Nothing else had mattered in that single moment. The immense relief he had felt when he had realized the child's heart was still beating, that he was still breathing, that he was  _alive,_ had been confusing, but there had been no time to dwell on it, and he surely could not do so now _._

Haytham was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the front door opening and the hurried footsteps of two people upon the staircase. He tore the last remnants of the tattered tunic from the boy's chest, revealing more injuries that needed to be treated as fast as possible. For a second he wondered if he should have called for Church, and then immediately rejected the idea. Not only was he not sure if the man had come back from his scouting mission with the others, but the Templar had discovered the surgeon had been rather careless in his work lately. The door opened to reveal Mary and a short, grey-haired man bearing a heavy satchel and a pair of spectacles.

"Master Kenway, I do hope this is as urgent as you said it was," the doctor said before stepping into the room, where his eyes settled upon the bed. "By God, I believe you now, girl!" he called back to the maid as he rushed forward, waving Haytham away as he settled on the edge of the bed where the Templar had been sitting. Luckily, the doctor never had been the racist sort, treating white, black or native men alike if they needed his help – and had the money to pay.

"Mary, fetch clean rags and a bowl of warm water, if you will," Haytham said calmly, although he was boiling intrenally. "Do you need anything else, doctor?"

The old man did not answer, already working on staunching the flow of blood from some of the deeper wounds as he muttered and whispered to himself, and so Haytham retired to a corner of the room, watching the man work, his face a mask of stone despite every conflicting emotion swirling inside him as he simply folded his arm over his chest and waited. Mary quickly brought the required items before disappearing again, muttering something about fixing breakfast although Haytham doubted anything would get done in the kitchen today. Despite the young woman's discretion, he could not blame her for being shaken by the sight of such a young child in pain.

It was almost noon by the time the doctor finally straightened from where he had stood for hours, hunched over the motionless boy. The tea Mary had brought him had long since grown cold, sitting untouched on the small dresser next to the door, Haytham the very picture of calm as he stood unmoving for as long as the doctor worked. He immediately joined the doctor at the foot of the bed when the man began to put back in his satchel the different instruments he had used while taking care of the native.

"It was a miracle, really," the old man finally said as he closed his bag, looking up at the Templar who stood rigidly at his side. "No broken bones, merely a cracked rib that will heal if the boy stays in bed for a couple of weeks and does not exert himself for a few months. The bandages will have to be changed every two days for a week and then twice a week for as long as the wounds do not seem to have properly healed. I will come back later this week to check on the boy, but meanwhile I will need a name for the file… without mentioning the pay."

Haytham mechanically reached for his belt, taking a bag of coins that contained at least three times the regular amount needed for the doctor's services. He dropped it on the nightstand next to the old man, the coins inside tinkling merrily.

"Here is your pay, doctor," the Templar answered. "And how about we forget the name?"

The old man seemed hesitant for a moment, his eyes shifting between Haytham, the child and the bag of coins. He finally smiled slightly, reaching for the purse before speaking.

"Very well, Master Kenway," he began, stowing the money away in the pockets of his coat. "I am sure you will take good care of… Connor here."

He had blurted out the name after a few seconds of thinking, and with a few more recommendations the old man was off, leaving Haytham alone with the wounded child.

"So his name is Connor, then?" a voice asked behind him, and the Templar turned around to see Mary stepping inside, carefully carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a bit of bread.

"Yes," Haytham replied, as he knew he would be unable to pronounce the child's real name was he to answer otherwise.

As the young woman put down the tray next to the teapot, she lingered a few more seconds than was necessary, making Haytham sigh wearily.

"Yes, Mary?"

"A message for you, Sir," she said, handing him a small envelope. "It just arrived before the doctor left."

The Templar took it from her with a nod, ripping the envelope open before quickly reading its content and sighing once more.

"It seems I must be off for a few hours," he said, already making his way toward the door. "Never mind cleaning or cooking today; just sit here and send word if he wakes."

The young woman nodded as the Templar swept out of the room before dragging a chair to sit next to the bed, arranging her skirts around herself as she waited for the front door to slam shut before allowing herself to slouch slightly in her seat as she watched the unconscious child. She sighed and rose to take the bread she had brought for Haytham, but that he had not touched before sitting back down next to the bed. This would be a long day.

* * *

"Redcoats are still actively patrolling the roads," Charles spoke, hunched over the map that laid spread out on the table between the six men. "Our informant tells me they are rather hostile to us since our last mission had such… unfortunate results."

Haytham nodded somberly at the memory of the redcoat patrol that had fallen into a trap originally intended for an Assassin courier that was supposed to travel that particular stretch of road that day. Although the courier had still met his end, albeit at Haytham's blade instead of the trap's simple trip wire and razor sharp blades, the patrol could not be saved, every last one of them eventually succumbing. The Templars had however learned that a scout, stationed nearby, had seen the six men leave the scene, and although he had since been silenced, word had still reached the higher ranking officers, although most of them had dismissed the story as a rumor when the bodies could not be found, the Templars having cleaned the scene after their slip-up with the scout.

Haytham straightened as he began to pace the length of the room, trying to decide on the best course of action as the men sat patiently waiting for his instructions.

"No assassinations of any kind will take place as long as the redcoats believe us to be a threat," the Templar finally said as he sat back down at the table. "We cannot afford to let them think we are the enemy, but most of all cannot allow the Assassins to gain their support when we are so close to eradicating them."

The men nodded their assent, and waited in silence for the man to speak again, growing restless as the silence around the table became lengthy. The animation around them in the Green Dragon tavern was not enough to ease their discomfort. Finally, a clearing of Haytham's throat made them still again.

"There was an attack on a Kanien'kehá:ka village," he said, his face neutral although there was a forced casualty to his tone that did not escape his men's attention. "As they are allies to the Templar, I think we should investigate."

Church immediately scoffed at the words, straightening from where he sat half-slouching in his chair.

"Allies?" he spat. "It has been years since they have helped us or since we have helped them. The only contacts we have with them are through William, and they mostly enquire about trade and land. I think we can hardly call them 'allies', now can we?"

Haytham felt a surge of anger rush through him, his face still impassible as the slight stiffening of his posture was the only sign of his internal rage. Church, who had shown himself to be so loyal when Haytham had called upon his for the first time, had slowly begun to shift toward more selfish objectives in the last few years. Although he was not a particularly altruistic person by nature, that flaw had never extended to the Order – until now. The Templar chose to ignore the man's tone as he spoke again.

"It may be so, but I still believe we should investigate. This way, we could once more be actively involved in native affairs. We all know this is a valuable source of information."

Had Haytham not been focused on Church, he would have seen the quick look Johnson and Lee shared before the latter spoke:

"Benjamin is right, Sir," he said as he rose. "Our links with this tribe have long since been severed, and even if we  _were_ to investigate, I doubt the natives would wish to actively join our cause once more. They are far too mistrustful, and will be even more so if, as you said, they have been attacked."

The slight murmurs of assent that rose around the table, followed by Hickey's loud cry of agreement had Haytham sigh.

"Very well. We should all lay low for a while. There will be nothing more than scouting for a few weeks. Charles, I will want weekly reports from our informant amongst the redcoats' ranks. We will meet here again in a month's time. If there is nothing else, you are dismissed."

If Haytham had not turned away to leave at that moment, he may have seen Hickey's lips quirk up in a smirk, or Pitcairn and Johnson's conspirational glance at each other, all subtle signs that may have told him that the men shared a dark secret, a secret of death and violence. They were relieved to have been able to direct him away from the subject of the devastated Kanien'kehá:ka village, although they wondered how he could have learned of the attack so quickly when it had happened not even two days ago. They knew they would have to keep an eye on him to see that he did not dig too deep into the story.

He did not have to know what had happened on that day. It was all for the greater good.


	4. Chapter 4

Ratonhnhaké:ton woke in the dark to a world of pain. He felt warm and feverish, and as he tried to move a white-hot pain shot through his entire body. He breathed hard as he struggled against whatever was covering him, and he wondered if that was how it felt to be dead. Was he condemned to suffer the pain of his last moment over and over for all eternity? That was not how Oiá:ner had said it would be.

But then he remembered.

The man had come for him. He had almost looked like an eagle, coming down from the skies to prey on the men who had attacked him, his blue cloak as wings to the barely conscious boy. The memory was little more than blurs and flashes, yet the Native remembered enough to know that the man had saved his life. He was very much alive, thanks to him. Perhaps he could be trusted, after all.

Finally the boy could throw the heavy covers off, albeit with great effort. Looking around him, he realized he was in the same room he had been in the previous morning – or he supposed it was. He barely had had a glimpse of it before his instinct had taken over. The pale light of dawn had begun to creep in by the curtained window, allowing him enough light to vaguely make out his surroundings; a chair had been placed next to the bed, and a nightstand to his right bore the stub of a candle. The only other furnishing in the room was a dresser across from the bed in which he lay. The boy frowned. Why his mother had brought him here was beyond him – but only it had not been his mother. He remembered then why he was here; the fire, the bodies, the faceless white men that had stood over his dying mother, laughing, grinning; terrifying figures of nightmare in his six year-old mind, shooting fire from their palms. He wanted to scream; he wanted to cry. But his eyes stayed dry and not a sound escaped his lips.

_You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton, you must be brave._

Footsteps soon broke the silence of the house, slowly coming up the stairs toward the room he was in. The boy could not help but tense, squirming amongst wool and cotton so that he could sit up straight against his pillow. His side was on fire, and he bit his lip against the pain, tasting blood as his teeth dug into the tender flesh.

_You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton, you must be brave._

The door opened to reveal a young woman with a plain, homely face, and he stilled. Her brown hair was held up in a bun and she wore a light grey dress. A white apron was tied around her slender waist, and she carried a full tray. Her frame was small and slight, and she barely paid attention to him as she placed her burden down on the dresser across from him. She busied herself with whatever she had brought for what seemed like an eternity before she finally turned to face him. It was only then that she noticed he had woken, and she at first seemed taken aback before she gave him a small smile as she came closer.

"Connor," she said, softly, carefully, as if to a frightened animal, "you're finally awake."

He narrowed his eyes at the name but otherwise kept silent as she came to sit in the chair next to the bed, a roll of bandages in one hand and a bowl of warm water in the other.

"Will you let me change your bandages?" she asked, although she had reached for him arm without waiting for his answer.

He jerked away from her grasping fingers, smothering a groan as pain ran through from the tip of his fingers to his elbow. She furrowed her brows and stood from the chair, reaching for him again.

"Don't be daft, Connor, let me help you," she said, but the child pushed her hands away. He had to get away. Who knew what this woman's  _real_ intentions were. He could roll off the bed, then stand and run and –

As he twisted his body to the side, he felt as if a white-hot knife had been slipped between his ribs and had knocked the breath out of him. He felt her hands on him, but he could no longer flee.

"There you go, isn't this better…? Connor? Connor?"

He could barely hear her over the pounding of his own blood in his ears. The pain refused to subside, twisting and gnawing at his side like a rabid beast. He squeezed his eyes shut and did not protest when he felt a pair of arms slip under him to place him back in the middle of the narrow bed, the ache roaring anew as he was moved. He had promised himself he would not cry or scream, but the whimper that escaped his throat quickly turned into sobs, and silent tears of pain finally ran down his cheeks.

It was a while before the pain ebbed away, and when his eyes finally fluttered open he saw that the young woman had disappeared, although the chair at his bedside was no longer empty.

"Be still, if you please," a man's,  _the_ man's voice said. "You are only making it worse."

Ratonhnhaké:ton turned his head to see him sitting cross-armed and cross-legged, his fingers tapping a rhythm against his bicep as he patiently waited for the boy to come to.

"Your injuries are quite extensive," he added. "You should not exert yourself."

The boy did not answer. The man sighed, straightening in his seat and uncrossing his legs to lean over to the boy.

"I realize that all of this," he gestured vaguely at nothing, "is a great shock for you. As you will be staying here, at least for a while, I believe we should make sure that nothing like what happened earlier this morning and yesterday happens again. The young woman you were so keen on running from is Mary, a young woman in my employ. Should you ever need anything, you need only ask her. She will not harm you. No one you ever encounter in this house will ever harm you. Do you understand?"

The young Native nodded imperceptibly.

"As for me, my name is Haytham Kenway. I – "

"My father."

Haytham was taken aback not only by the boy's knowledge, but also by his apparent calm. His face was a smooth mask of stone, betraying neither surprise nor joy or sadness, a mask that brought back to his mind memories of his mother, although he forced them away. He quickly found his voice again.

"That is correct." The boy's expression did not change, so the Templar saw no need to dwell upon the subject, although he suspected questions would come later. "I trust you remember the events that led to your presence here?"

Now his mask cracked. There was a twitch of his lips and a wavering of his gaze. The boy nodded.

"Good. I need you to tell me exactly what you have seen that day. All of it."

The Native's eyes met his again.

"Why?" he asked in a small voice, and the Templar was suddenly reminded that this stone-faced boy must have been no more than seven years-old. He steeled himself and put as much authority in his voice as he could, without scaring the boy away.

"So that I can find who did this to Ziio. To your mother," he said. " _Tell me what you saw._ "

There was silence for a long time before the child finally gave in to his request. Haytham listened to his clumsy retelling, his face betraying nothing of the storm that raged inside of him as the details left out by the boy were filled in by the most horrible possibilities thanks to his overactive imagination. Had Ziio been raped? Had she been tortured? The young Native seemed to have stumbled upon only the tail end of the confrontation. So many things could have happened while he was being taken away. His dark eyes remained fixed on a point above the boy's head, afraid his rage might show if he looked the child in the eye. He could hear the anger in the boy's voice. When finally it was done, the Templar allowed himself to lower his eyes to the child's face. He could see the stubborn set of his lips and the furrow of his brows even as his eyes brimmed with tears.  _It should not have been this way_ , he thought bitterly.

"Did you see their faces?" Haytham asked.

The Native shook his head, and the Templar could not silence a disappointed grunt.

"That will make finding them much harder, but I am confident that I  _can_ track them down," he said, and the boy looked at him through his long black hair.

"And when you find them, what will you do?" the boy asked softly, so softly that the Templar almost believed he had not spoken.

Haytham hesitated.

"I hardly think that – "

"I saw what you did to those men in the alley," the child whispered, if a bit louder than before. "I want to be able to do the same to those who killed my mother."

Haytham looked upon the Native's youthful face. Even he knew that such a young child should not be talking the way the boy was talking now. Although he remembered that his own upbringing had been rather severe, there were still moments to laugh and play with boys his own age. He had been eight when he had seen his first corpse, and ten when he had killed his first man. He had been submitted to harsh training as early as the age of six. Despite this, his father would still remind him he was just a boy that should still be worrying about nothing more than scraped knees and borrowed toys. He knew it would not be the same for the child.  _My son_ , he forced himself to think.  _He is my son._

"Will you show me?" the boy asked.

The Templar stayed silent.

"Will you show me?" he asked again.

There was silence for a while before Haytham finally answered.

"We shall see."

They were silent after that. Haytham changed his bandages, working in silence before taking his leave, leaving Ratonhnhaké:ton to fall asleep not long after his departure.

The boy did not dream.

* * *

When next he woke, the high sun of noon streamed into his room through the open window, and the young woman, Mary, was sitting at his side, reading a book she immediately snapped shut when she heard the boy shift in his bed.

"Connor," she said with a smile. He stared at her blankly at the name. He did recall her calling him that, but in his frenzied state he had not immediately paid attention to the foreign name.

She seemed to wait for him to speak, but sighed as he said nothing, rising from her chair and smoothing her skirt.

"I will fetch Master Kenway, then," she said stiffly, quickly marching out of the room. Ratonhnhaké:ton could hear her rapid steps as she paced the length of the hallway outside his room, seemingly stopping at the very end. Three loud knocks were heard, and then muffled voices, before heavier footsteps made their way back to his room. Haytham pushed the door open and stood stiffly at the end of the bed, staring down at the young boy before him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ratonhnhaké:ton was quicker.

"Who is Connor?" he asked, staring up at his father.

The Templar seemed momentarily lost at the question.

"She just called me 'Connor'. That is not my name," the child said, crossing his arms over his chest.

A small smile graced the man's lips at the boy's stubborn tone. He came to sit in the chair next to the bed, leaning forward and placing his elbows upon his knees. The boy thought he looked tired.

"I hope you will forgive my rather limited knowledge of your language, but I cannot pronounce your name," said he. "'Connor' was simply a name I could give to any who would ask about you. As a matter of fact, I could never pronounce your mother's name either, although I did learn to, later," he added, and for a moment his eyes seemed clouded by memories, and his shoulders sagged, although the moment was quickly gone, and he was back to his seemingly unconcerned self. "You may choose another name, if that is your wish."

The boy shrugged. In his heart of hearts, he would always be named Ratonhnhaké:ton. What the white men called him mattered little.

"It is settled then," said Haytham. "For now, you are Connor Kenway."

The man then talked about the wounds he had suffered at the hands of the would-be slavers and of his recovery, but Connor barely listened. The news that he would, however, be bedridden for a week pleased him little. Yet, remembering the pain he had felt earlier, he accepted it.

He had to, now.

* * *

Haytham left the boy to himself soon after, retreating to his study which was situated but a few doors down from the child's room.

He sat behind his desk with a sigh, wearily brushing aside maps and letters that had kept him occupied while the boy slept.

The timing of Connor's arrival had been unfortunate, to say the least.

The operation to rid the colonies of all trace of the Assassin Brotherhood had taken years to prepare, with new strategies having to be elaborated as each and every one of the Templar's plans were ousted by the Brotherhood's efforts. But finally the perfect scheme had been found, and it would all come to a head in two months' time. The Assassins, however, had been scattering lately, as if sensing the Templar's impending attack; Haytham prayed it was not the case. Too much time and effort had been invested in this endeavor to have it fail now. The others were confident: Achilles Davenport was oblivious to their plans, and so was the rest of his wretched order; in time, the colonial Assassins would be nothing more than a smoldering pile of ashes.

There was therefore little time now to welcome a son into the Grand Master's life. Still, he could not turn Connor away. The boy's words still haunted him and, as much as Haytham wished he would, he knew his son would not soon forget their conversation. He had seen in the boy's eyes the same ravenous anger he had himself felt when he was younger, a fire that would be quelled by nothing but revenge. In this regard, the child may have been too much like his father for his own good. Still, the Templar could not help but see an opportunity there. He had never expected to have children, but now that he knew of Connor's existence, he had a chance to pass on his ideals. The boy could become his legacy to what he hoped would be a better world after the Templars' victory.

True, the boy would certainly not, as yet, be receptive to the ideas of the Templar Order, but as soon as his wounds were healed he could be trained to fight and climb and run, just as he had himself been by his father before him. The body had to come first; only then could the mind follow. The boy's demand could, after all, be reconsidered, despite the Templar's initial wariness.

Haytham leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. There was still the problem of revealing his son's existence to the men, but this problem could be solved later – or perhaps sooner would be better? Yes. But it could wait until tomorrow.


End file.
